Into The Eyes of the Devil
by Cynopsis
Summary: A 1st Class SOLDIER goes up against the mighty Sephiroth.


**Into The Eyes of the Devil**

This is hard.

I can't match that strength of his. I'm just a kid. It's a little out of my league. I'm just not as pretty with my skill or weapon. Not as finely conditioned. Not as finely tuned or calibrated. Not his worth. He's got such awesome confidence.

Awesome and infinite power. Incalculable.

His slaps of steel are slick, cold and beautiful. Perversely ruthless but rhythmically tuned, like a lullaby. It's like humming a tune that your heart knows affectionately even if the words don't initially come to you.

I never asked for this. I have to work harder than most to deflect the well placed strikes from his blade onto mine. The disparity in strength, skill and focus is too much to overcome, even for someone with as great potential as myself.

I never asked for this at all. I have to work even harder to control my heart rate, to keep it from spiraling out of control, to keep my ragged, sharp breaths from taking control of my waning temperament and to stop the darkness and its enticing clutches from beckoning to me as I flirt with exhaustion.

My God… that last blow. It abuses my shoulders and obliterates my arms. My spine screams in desperation for me to take it out of its misery. My fingers burn. I'm thirsty. I'm scared. I'm tired.

I don't want to feel the pain anymore. Or the beat of things.

I don't think I have what it takes to stick with him any longer.

Him and his blades of hollow.

Here's another strike coming. Please. No. I can't.

Down, down I go when he brings his blade of apathy towards my belt. Not out of fear, hesitation or cowardice. But out of weakness. Out of control. Lack thereof.

I fall for a second and he impatiently shoots forward, not waiting for any chance of recuperation on my part.

Get up. Get up I tell myself. I know how this will look if I don't. They'll laugh. They'll scream. They'll cry and beg for more tests. Tests on how I can improve. How to make me better. How to set me apart from the pack.

As he comes forward, he brings killer intent. He brings more than that. He brings fervor. He brings pride. He brings arrogance. He brings control.

There's a precision to this game I have to learn and become acclimated to. Like a spinning web of questions, there's only one in the end that matters.

Can I survive? No chance like the present. I hastily shoot up and bring my weapon forth.

The metal blade chimes with mine, shrieking fiercely as it pulls away and collides again. Over and over. Over and over.

Repeatedly. Once. Twice. Three times. Four, five, six, ten, eleven, twenty.

Stop, parry, absorb, go. Deflect, dodge, absorb, go. Run.

Please.

Just make it. Make it through this.

Please body.

Make me stop this hurt. Make it stop this hurt. Make stop this hurt. Make the hurt stop. Make it stop. Make stop. Stop. Stop hurt. Stop.

This is dangerous.

This is sick. This is twisted. These are no conditions for a young kid like me to be experiencing. To be subjected to such horrendous practice at such ripe an age is to take away my innocence and condemn me for eternity.

But they're doing that already aren't they? They're in the process. Or they have…

They have…

They've taken it. All of it. They've taken it all away from me. I know it's wrong of them to do so but I'm helpless to stop it. My childhood is being raped from existence as I speak while I work tirelessly just to make it through this violent and furious ordeal.

Step back. Step side. Step across. He keeps coming, effortlessly. Ruthless. Cold. Vindictive. Apathetic.

I want to cry but they'd just laugh and mock me later on. The unforgiving nights, lying in your bed while the cynical, cruel cacophony of noises from your mates hounds your ears is infinitely more biting than any training session with this calculating madman.

Their bubbly faces will contort and disfigure into caricatures of the haunting night while they laugh you into a depression. You'll fall asleep and wake up to find your tear soaked pillow now damp and reeking of your sweat, misfortune and uncalled fame.

Take your pick. They're trying to become friends of mine or so they say. They try to become friends of mine through battery, through harassment, through assault of the will.

Toughen you up is what they'll say. It'll toughen you up. This is preparation before subjecting you to the hungry masses. They'll douse you with their fire before unleashing you and your caged fury unto the world.

Here he comes again. Someone. Help.

What a shot. His fierce swing is met with resistance that takes me back a good several feet, like a boxer absorbing a bodied blow. My face hurts from the old tears stinging my cheeks. They're dry now but I can feel their acerbic residue.

My body is about to lapse. The stream of confidence in my knees checks out and I have a perfect image, right here right now.

I can die. I can drop my blade, give up and die and become absolutely content with my sudden lack of existence.

No more screams. No more rage. No more long nights or early mornings. No more training sessions. No more choruses of reprimand, of subtle degradation. No more injections of candy and the earth's glowing lifeline. No more needles, sharp whistles or painkillers. No more migraines. No more voices inside my head.

No more contempt.

Just me and myself. Me and absolute eternity. Peace.

I bring my blade up a final time and absorb the first blow. His gloved fist from his free hand kisses my face with a sting, reminding me that I'm very much a pet to them. A valuable pet to be locked up and released when they desire.

Free. No. Not anymore. I'm a product of their system. An ends to an ultimate mean for a sadistic corporation.

I wish I were dead.

I feel burn. I feel rage. I feel compassion towards my fellow trainees who will soon be unlucky enough to join me. I feel…

Nothing.

My blade falls to the floor, the earth buckling under its mighty weight.

My shimmering eyes look up towards the unforgiving soul with his blade held up high, getting ready to come down and terminate me from my shock.

He pauses for a second, his glowing aqua eyes burning into mine, as if asking me for my last testament. Then, without further pity, he comes down hard with his skill by his side, ready to extinguish my impossible failure from this fractured planet.

"Stop!" Hojo's voice cuts through the murderous tension through the intercom, prompting the older SOLDIER to pause and look up. "That's enough for today. Thank you."

The warrior in front of me nods to Hojo before turning to look at me. "Nice job Sephiroth," he remarks dispassionately as he sheaths his blade and begins towards the exit. "Same time tomorrow kid."

* * *

**Notes: **I guess I wrote this to illustrate that at some point, even the mighty Sephiroth felt inferior and afraid of someone.


End file.
